


Mint and Meadowsweet

by spiderstanspiderstan



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Herbalism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-16 19:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderstanspiderstan/pseuds/spiderstanspiderstan
Summary: Lalli didn't like it. Of course Lalli didn't like it. Why had Reynir assumed that he would like it in the first place? They probably didn’t even have tea in Finland.





	Mint and Meadowsweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



Lalli was throwing up again. 

Reynir winced at the sound of retching. Everyone else seemed distressingly oblivious; the only reaction it got from anyone was an irritated sigh from Emil, who had recently been relegated to keeper of the mop. Tuuri didn’t seem to give a fig about it, which was a little callous. 

By the time they had ground to a stop, so Emil, Lalli, and Sigrun could go book-hunting, Reynir had a plan. It might even make up for him breaking into Lalli’s special dream-space. Or make him marginally less pissed off about it, at least. 

Even if Lalli hated him forever, it would help him feel a bit better. These last few days had been on especially rough terrain. 

“Mikkel,” he said, poking his head into the office, where Mikkel was sorting through books for Tuuri to transcribe. “Can I go outside?” 

Mikkel responded with a shrug. 

“If you stay in sight of the tank.” he said. “And don’t do anything stupid.” 

Reynir gave a thumbs-up. 

“Promise!” he said, before grabbing his mask and kitty, and sprinting outside. He was underdressed for the snow, but right now, that didn’t matter. 

Living in Iceland, he’d been pretty isolated, but there’d been one big moment in the world outside the farms: the annual sheepdog trials. There had been sheepdog trials for as long as there had been sheep and dogs, and no measly death-plague could stop that. People came from as far as ten miles away to show off their dogs, and now, their skills. 

Sigils were useful, in every walk of life. Shepherding, too. 

Reynir thought back to the first and last trial he’d attended— on advice that if he didn’t touch  _ anything _ , he’d probably be fine. He’d managed to catch a cold and send just about everyone into hysterics, but besides that, it had been a great experience. 

And he’d managed to hold onto one important bit of knowledge— a sigil. 

He’d thought it was pretty, when he was younger, and doodled the design everywhere. It’d never worked before, but he’d been unaware of his power then. This time, hopefully, it would. 

Reynir trotted over to a nearby tree, and broke off a large branch. The mages at the sheepdog trials always had staves, but a stick would have to do. 

He dug the end of the stick into the snow, and dragged it along in an arc, careful to keep his footprints as far outside of the sigil as possible.

It was probably better to make it bigger, he decided, holding the stick at arm’s length. The base circle was about as wide across as he was tall, and the arcing line through it— its bottom at the centre of the circle, approximately— took his full reach. He added an X going through the centre, bisected it with a vertical line, both spilling out of the bounds of the circle. 

He focused intently on the act, the process of making it real— the rest of the world seemed to fade slightly, with the tunnel-vision of concentration. Lines, and snow, and history. Once, as a child, Reynir had been lost in a maze. Being lost in a rune was a similar sensation. He drew the final touches— three-pointed trident shapes on the end of each of the X’s points, and three strike-throughs of each line. The last step was a horizontal line on each end of the vertical one. 

When he stepped back— sweating slightly, despite the cold— the sigil burst into life, sizzling into the snow. Slowly, the entirety of the space it covered melted clear. Reynir dropped into a squat, and watched, delighted, as tiny green-white shoots began to burrow up through the dark earth. The sigil was created for snowy lambing seasons, to bring a breath of spring. 

Shoots became plants; grasses and wildflowers swelling up and stretching their leaves, painting the patch of ground bright green. Soon, the flowers were blooming, their petals splashes of colour against the muted tones of the silent world. The vivid blue of gentian, the circular yellow centres of chamomile, square-stemmed mint and white, heady-smelling meadowsweet. 

“Yes!” Reynir whooped, getting to his feet too quickly. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, then cleared. He waved to Mikkel, who was standing in the doorway. “Look! It worked!” 

"Good job," Mikkel deadpanned. "What are those for? Can you do that with food?"

"The plants have to be native, I think. And they’re for Lalli!" Reynir announced, grinning. "Do you think I could dry them in the oven? Or would they burn..."

He crunched back through the snow, shivering a little. He'd forgotten his knife, and his coat, and needed to check if they had anything resembling a shovel...

A few minutes later, Reynir was on his knees with a basket, cutting and uprooting plants with his knife. He needed the gensum roots, but for everything else, he could use the stems and flowers. Since there was no way to set the oven on “low”, he’d have to let some air-dry. 

He hummed tunelessly as he worked. It felt good to be doing something again; for most of the journey so far, he'd been almost completely dead weight. The smell of snow and cut grass was pleasant, made even more so by the touch of wan winter sunlight.

Mikkel was still watching from the tank, like he expected Reynir to trip and fall head-first into a troll nest without leaving their little clearing.

Did Lalli like mint? Or meadowsweet? They'd have to be made into teas, to be of any use- the alcohol kept on board was made for disinfecting, and definitely not drinkable, sot tinctures using it were right out.

When Reynir was about halfway through the little patch of greenery, Tuuri appeared, peering around Mikkel's bulk with her mask on.

"What are you doing?" She called, in the same wonky sort of icelandic that her brother used. The pronunciation was noticeably less off, but her accent was still pretty heavy. Between that and the mask, it took Reynir a moment to parse what she was saying.

"Getting herbs!" he called back. "For your cousin!"

"Uh, good luck?" Tuuri called back, before disappearing back into the cat-tank. Maybe she didn't know much about medicine. They might not teach that in the army, or her particular branch of it. Reynir only had such in-depth knowledge because of parental paranoia. 

His entire childhood, he hadn't been allowed to so much as sneeze without being immediately drowned in echinacea tea and orange juice. Eventually, he'd taken to memorising the mixtures and identifying the plants they came from, so he'd at least be trusted to self-administer them. He'd never really thought of it as a skill that would be useful— most of his siblings had the same homebrew education, and at least half of them were better at it than him.

When he was finally finished digging everything out— after the fingertips of his gloves were stained green, and snowmelt had begun seeping into his wool trousers— he picked up his basket, and went back inside.

"Do I need to, uh, decontaminate... things?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to himself and his herbs.

"They're plants," Mikkel said. "And you went about four meters."

"Is that a no?"

When he'd been given the all—clear, Reynir wound his hair up into a crown to get it out of the way, and got to work. He washed the herbs in water from the UV-saturated storage tank, and cut away the excess. He hadn't quite anticipated how much greenery a small garden could produce, and he had to commandeer the desk to deal with it all. 

He cut away unnecessary stems and leaves, piling them back up in the basket. Some of them were probably edible, and Mikkel might know how to pick them out.

Lalli might be above this sort of thing, he realised. Lalli gave off an air of being above... almost everything, really. He was blood-thumpingly ethereal, like he'd wandered out of fairyland, and being around him made Reynir feel very awkwardly and distinctly human, and common.

Then again, pretty much everyone liked tea, and absolutely everyone liked not vomiting. Those advantages might bribe Lalli back over from the "you-literally-invaded-my-most-private-thoughts" side.

Reynir tied most of the plants into organised little bundles; mint with mint and meadowsweet with meadowsweet, and hung them up by the stove to dry. the rest, he chopped into fine little pieces. He didn't have a strainer on hand, so he tied a bundle of torn-up mint leaves up in a clean handkerchief, and set some water to boil.

They didn't have a kettle, so he just used a general cooking pot, set up over the stove. When the water had reached a low boil— too hot, and it'd get bitter— he dropped the hankie in, took it off the heat, and covered it with a plate so it could steep. He sat back, staring at the clock to time it, and feeling rather self-satisfied.

When Lalli got back, the tea was still hot. Waiting through the decontamination procedure was one of the most excruciating experiences of Reynir's life.

"Lalli!" he said, once they could be in the same space again.

Lalli fixed him with electric-blue eyes, and Reynir suddenly felt like his tea idea was kind of stupid. He kept going anyway, though, despite the leering possibility of rejection.

He swept a battered mug through the pot, and held it out to Lalli.

Lalli stared blankly at it for a moment.

"Tuuri!" he called, before breaking off into utterly incomprehensible Finnish. Tuuri walked through to talk to them, rolling her eyes.

"Tell him that it's tea," Reynir said. "And it's for when you're driving, to make him feel better."

Tuuri nodded, and translated. Lalli took the cup.

He took one sip of it, scowled. He made direct eye contact for maybe the first time ever, and upended the mug, tipping its contents out on the floor, before stalking off to the sleeping area.

"Lalli!" Tuuri scolded, before turning to Reynir.  "I'm so sorry about him. I bet everyone else will like your tea!"

"Oh, yeah." Reynir mumbled, staring into the puddle of peppermint tea at his feet. "I'll get a towel."

Lalli didn't like it. Of course Lalli didn't like it. Why had Reynir assumed that he would like it in the first place? They probably didn’t even  _ have  _ tea in Finland. 

What he wanted to do was curl up in bed and pretend the world, and all his failures in it, didn't exist, but Lalli was sleeping in there and he didn't want to intrude. In the small amount of time where their sleep overlapped, they were perilously close, Reynir’s mattress pressed right up against the edge of Lalli’s space. 

"Can you tell everyone I made tea?" he said, instead. "even if Lalli doesn't want any?" 

"Sure!" Turri said. her cheerfulness sounded forced- she was probably trying to hide her pity for him.

Reynir busied himself with chores for the next few hours— helping to cook and clean, so he couldn't be caught out by thoughts of how completely useless he was— but it didn’t really work. He'd disappointed Lalli, and that basically ruined the entire day, in terms of making him feel graceless and dumb.

With sunset approaching, he went to bed early, or at least was in bed early. He was in bed because he'd flopped face-first down onto his mattress (almost breaking his nose) in a fit of melancholy, and not because he planned on sleeping, but it still counted.

He didn't even mean to fall asleep when he did— it was still before dinnertime, and Reynir didn't normally need colossal amounts of sleep— but he' knew when it happened.

Something warm and wet slapped across his face, and he opened his eyes to one of the reoccuring dogs in his dreamscape, licking him. Tuuri's big brother had described the place as a haven, and that was what it seemed like right now— just a gentle breeze, and dogs, and sheep, all things he could deal with.

When he got up, he saw the boat. He was nearer the shore than he'd thought; he could sea the prow silhouetted against the horizon, and, standing up on the deck, looking very determined—

Uh oh.

Lalli waved, and Reynir panicked. He was coming to exact revenge, or yell at him, or  _ something  _ to twist the knife about today's offense. Lalli was never really cruel, just blunt, but Reynir had grown up on a farm where people generally at least tried to be nice.

He certainly didn't want to face whatever he was in store for, but on the other hand... they could talk here. The language barrier didn't exist. So when Lalli reached the wall— and Reynir abruptly remembered that he couldn't actually get through them— it parted before him, and let him in.

Lalli half-fell out of the boat, looking for all the world like he'd been pushed into a gladiatorial arena. Reynir reasoned that 'slightly terrified’ was a better attitude than 'infuriated', and decided to hold his ground. He kind of deserved to be chewed out anyway.  

"Onni says I have to apologise," Lalli said, folding his arms like a petulant child. "For pouring out your garbage tea."

He was even prettier in the dreamworld, dressed in much more ornate clothes. He had the pelt of something tied over his shoulders, and an ornately embroidered tunic. The thigh-high boots, of all things, seemed to be a constant. 

A very eye-catching constant. 

"Uh." Reynir stammered.

"I'm sorry," Lalli pressed on, avoiding eye contact. "Your garbage tea was great, it's not your fault you picked a weird, garbage plant to make it out of."

Realisation dawned like a forceful slap.

"You don't like peppermint!" Reynir exclaimed. His heart soared. "Oh, man, you should have just  _ said _ , I got other plants too! It's not just peppermint, I promise!"

Lalli seemed decently satisfied by that. He made an expression that was edging on a smile. It was barely noticeable, but a dusting of pink spread across his pale cheeks. 

"Tuuri didn't tell me what was in it," he said gruffly, shrugging. "How did you get so many plants in the middle of winter?"

"Magic!" Reynir said. "Well, not exactly? they would have grown there anyway, I just saw people using that rune at the sheepdog trials-"

"Sheepdogs?"

"I'm a shepherd," Reynir clarified. "Or. My parents are. I mostly just help, I've helped since I was really small. It's good to have kids around, because small hands can get up inside-"

Lalli looked queasy.

"Inside... the sheep?" he asked.

"Sometimes the lambs try to get born backwards," Reynir explained. "But, I learned a lot about herbs-"

"I'm going to... go..." Lalli said, backing away slowly. "I need to go out, anyway."

When Reynir woke up— incredibly disoriented, and much much too early— Lalli, true to his word, was gone.

It was maybe three in the morning, but Reynir had been struck by a wave of inspiration. they were probably going to get moving sometime around sunrise, after Lalli got back, so he still had time.

Meadowsweet grew in Finland. Probably. Once, Reynir's brother had told him it was more common outside of Iceland, and that meant Lalli might not totally hate the flavour.    
  


Reynir got up— tripping over Mikkel on his way out— and lit the stove. The basic process of making tea was the same. the only difference was the herb he used; meadowsweet, the entire plant chopped fine. Hopefully, it wouldn't be cold by the time Lalli arrived and got decontaminated.

Lalli took longer than usual, that night. Reynir missed it— he snapped awake when the tank began to move again, at the steady trundling speed it always did. He'd nodded off slumped against the wall, and someone had turned off the stove for him. The pot was gone too.

Reynir wandered through the tank until he found Lalli, curled up on the bench behind the driver's seat, and clutching a tin mug like his life depended on it.    
  
Lalli gave him a stern look, then mumbled something to Tuuri.

"He says, 'this better work'," she parroted.

Lalli shuffled towards the corner of the bench, looking at Reynir expectantly.    
  
"I hope it will?" Reynir said, and waited for Tuuri to relay his message. Lalli looked... bedraggled, to use kind words. His hair seemed to have gotten conflicted on what direction was best to stick up in, and gone for all of them at once.

Lalli sighed in frustration, the pointed at Reynir, then at the space next to him on the bench.

"Oh!" Reynir said. "Oh, you want me to- okay."    
  


He plopped inelegantly down on the bench, feeling supremely awkward. Lalli seemed a lot more comfortable— he slumped against Reynir immediately, giving a wordless, dissatisfied groan and cocking his head towards Tuuri. She'd probably dragged him out here again, when he really should have been sleeping.

"Do you like the tea?" Reynir asked, slightly overwhelmed at having been pulled into his personal bubble. "Tuuri, uh, could you ask him if he likes the tea?"

An exchange in Finnish.

"He thinks it's good," Tuuri answered. "He likes it better than mint."

Reynir nodded, filling that bit of knowledge away for any later chance to use it. 

  
"Good!" he said, trying not to smile too broadly. "Is it helping?"    
  
"Helping with what?" Tuuri asked, twisting around in her seat.

"Eyes on the road!" Sigrun commanded. Tuuri whipped back around.

They hit a bump anyway, and Lalli slammed the rest of his cup. He buried his face in Reynir's hair, groaning. It would have been adorable, if not for the risk of getting puked on.

Carefully, as though he was handling sugar-glass, Reynir slid an arm around Lalli’s body, and rubbed small circles on his back, like his mother used to do when he was ill. 

The sudden clinginess was outright alarming. Lalli didn’t like to be held— he didn’t like to be  _ interacted _ with. 

Reynir didn’t mind, though. Lalli was, comparatively,  _ tiny _ , and there was something extremely pleasing about the way he fit against Reynir’s body. 

Lalli turned his head slightly, so he wouldn’t be muffled. He dictated something to Tuuri, who bounced it back to Sigrun in an annoyed monotone. 

Sigrun unfolded from her seat, and when she returned, it was with more tea, and probably-stale bread. Reynir reached out for a slice, and discovered that Lalli apparently  _ really _ disliked that. The other mage snapped to attention, glaring, then very pointedly threw his arms around Reynir’s neck, and climbed into his lap. 

  
Reynir’s brain promptly short-circuited. Instinct told him to reciprocate, so he wrapped his arms around Lalli, and joined in the glare-at-Sigrun-for-no-reason party. He was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of contact— Lalli was small enough that Reynir could basically engulf him, and a couple layers of cloth did  _ nothing _ . 

Lalli wriggled an arm free, and took his second cup of tea. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ArisTGD for beta-reading!
> 
> follow me on my new fic tumblr [here!](http://na-no-why-mo.tumblr.com)


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